


The Prince of Darkness is a Gentleman

by KateLouisaRose



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateLouisaRose/pseuds/KateLouisaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hannibal was positioning them like chess pieces on a board. He longed for the day that he would take the king." Hannibal Lecter is a man of poise, of patience and cunning. Will Graham is playing right into his hands, and the game has been rigged from the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**“Love is like a tree: it grows by itself, roots itself deeply in our being and continues to flourish over a heart in ruin. The inexplicable fact is that the blinder it is, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger than when it is completely unreasonable.”**  
 _― Victor Hugo_

 

            Dr Hannibal Lecter sat alone in his cavernous office, accompanied by the soothing whisper of paper as he systematically retrieved and checked the relevant information from the menagerie of folders, stacked in neat pillars beside him. His tailored suit jacket had been discarded on the divan some hours ago, and now he reclined against the welcoming leather back of his chair, his hands stilling for a moment in their work to roll up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The ticking of the antique clock in the hall penetrated the easy silence, providing a metronome to the steady beat of the strange heart in his chest. Hannibal drummed a blunt finger against the polished wood of his desk with a drawn out, desolate sigh, as if his soul was trying to escape through his lips (little luck it would have, little luck it will ever have so long as he is still breathing). The doctor ran a weary hand through his thin blond hair, loosening his tie with a single finger. Six patients had been scheduled for today, including one young woman who had worn the most distracting perfume which had his mouth watering for hours after she had gone. At nine thirty, Hannibal stood up stiffly, striding towards the stereo set on one of the shelves, flicking the button absently and returning to his chair to stare unseeingly at the ceiling. The first strains of a soft classical arrangement flitted throughout the room and the doctor closed his eyes.

Hannibal almost missed the light rap of tentative knuckles against the door to his office beneath the swell of the music, and he stood reflexively, smoothing his shirt. “Come in,” he said gently, his fingertips fanned on the desk to steady himself. The door handle turned and Will Graham was delivered into the room. Hannibal offered him a surprised smile, a mere twitch of his lips, and Will nodded shyly.

“Mr Graham, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Hannibal asked smoothly, stepping out from behind his desk and placing a hand on top of the stacked files. Will closed the door behind him, twisting his fingers in an unconsciously anxious gesture. Hannibal observed him with interest. Will cast his eyes downwards; when he looked up again, Hannibal was leaning against the desk with his arms folded and his head tilted slightly on one side. Professionally curious.

“Jack Crawford sent me,” he said at last.

“Ah, those famous last words. Please, sit and let’s discuss the nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” Will repeated apprehensively, but Hannibal merely passed a hand towards the divan, motioning for him to take a seat. The doctor sat beside Will at a respectable distance, but with their knees the closest to touching they had ever been. It could be that Will was letting his guard down in his fatigued state, Hannibal mused as he studied the other man. Will scrubbed a hand across his face and fixed the carpet with a baleful expression.

“You must understand that I take no pleasure in coming here, Dr Lecter.” Will said, his voice a little hoarse, a strange and distant catch in his throat punctuating his words with a soft clicking sound. The doctor looked at Will thoughtfully before taking a breath.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “for the purposes of this conversation, we can allow a little informality.” Will raised his head to indicate that he had heard. “I’ll call you by your name, and you shall call me by mine. Does that sound fair, Will?”

“If that would make you more comfortable,” Will replied. Hannibal hung his head.

“This is not about my comfort, William. I am simply suggesting that you should allow people to become close to you, once in a while.”

“If you say so, Hannibal.” Hannibal smiled slowly. The doctor carefully removed his tie, sliding it through the shirt collar and wrapping it like a bandage around his fingers. Will watched him from the corner of his eye, cautious of being caught. He still seemed uncomfortable making direct eye contact. In an effort to gain his trust, Hannibal had been carefully conditioning the other man to his presence, invading Will’s personal space by small amounts, passing light touches and soft smiles. All good things, and all that.

“Speaking of comfort,” Hannibal said, gesturing to the tie, standing carefully to avoid jostling fragile little William. He laid the tie across the back of his chair, smoothing it with his palm. The doctor remained facing away from Will as he spoke, encouraging the openness which seemed to follow if Will was not under pressure to conform or to behave in a certain way. “It is rather late for a consultation, and I find it hard to believe that dear old Jack would send such a delicate Will to my company for a once over at this time of night.” Hannibal wandered to the cabinet on the far side of the room, retrieving a bottle from the bottom shelf and pouring two glasses. “A nice Chianti, to steady you,” Hannibal began, turning slowly with the two glasses held in either hand. Will was slouched on the divan, his body attempting to curl in on itself protectively, eyes closed against the glare of the room. His breath came in unsteady gasps, his neck twisted at an awkward angle. Hannibal smirked, setting the glasses on the small table beside Will and moving across his office to dim the lighting. “Murder for your liver, of course,” he continued, as though Will were still conscious. “But we shan’t worry about that in a strong, able bodied young man such as yourself.” Hannibal crouched beside the sleeping figure of his colleague, carefully manoeuvring his limp body into a more comfortable position, lying with his head pillowed on the arm of the divan. He studied the lines in his brow, the distress which snagged his features. “What horrors reside within that frail skull of yours, what monsters lurk in the dark corners of your subconscious? Do you feel the thrill of the hunt, the same hunger as I do? Does your heart beat faster where mine will not?” Hannibal reached out a hand and bid himself to touch the curve of Will’s exposed throat, to trail a finger up to his jaw and across the stubble and run over the soft, full lips. “Have you ever felt as though you do not belong, as though your mind is so unique, so perfectly inhuman that you cannot hope to function in this perfect human world?” Hannibal smoothed his fingertips along the frown lines and smiled as Will’s expression softened, his breath tapering out into a deep, steady rhythm. “What an innocent, gentle soul wrought by such terrors.” He tutted quietly to himself, brushing a hand trough Will’s unruly hair and raking his nails lightly against Will’s scalp. The young man sighed gently, and Hannibal forced himself to step away from the sleeping figure, his head filled with the smell of cheap aftershave, sweat and dog. He wanted to bury his nose in the nape of Will’s neck and drink him in, bite the shell of his ear and claw at the meat of his shoulders, the sloping, graceful curve of his spine, to consume him in essence and body. Hannibal tore his gaze away and swallowed his drink, which now seemed vile and tasteless in his mouth compared to the promise of Will’s perfect living flesh. He walked to the other side of the room and made himself comfortable in his chair, preparing for a long and interesting night.

* * *

            Will woke around six in the morning. Hannibal lifted his head from his chest and massaged the back of his neck stiffly, smiling lazily at Will as the other man blinked in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “Good morning,” Hannibal said, clearing his throat afterwards as his voice came out a little gruff. Will was frowning at him as Hannibal stood up and surreptitiously cracked his back, groaning softly.

“I don’t...” Will froze in the act of sitting up and sighed, combing a hand through his hair. “Oh.” He murmured, casting a guilty glance in Hannibal’s direction. Hannibal chuckled, stretching his legs by walking over to where Will was still half sprawled on the divan. Will stared in confusion at the woollen throw which Hannibal had carefully draped across him during the night.

“Did I...sleep here last night?” Will asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Hannibal answered shortly, “a deep sleep it was too, and a dreamless one at that.” Will raised his head.

“You watched me?”

“I observed.”

“For how long?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow in answer as he shrugged on his jacket.

“Let me drive you home.” He said instead, walking over to Will and taking the throw from him, folding it neatly and placing it on the divan.

“I have a car,”

“I would feel better if you would allow me to drive you.” Hannibal insisted in a clipped tone. Will shut his mouth; apparently having decided that it would be unwise to argue.

* * *

            The interior of Hannibal’s car was dark and smelled faintly of pine and some richer, metallic scent which Will couldn’t quite place. The empathetic young man sat beside his psychiatrist in awkward silence. Hannibal seemed unaware of Will’s discomfort, or rather, he did not find it particularly noteworthy.

“The nightmares,” Will said softly, almost as though he didn’t want to be heard. Hannibal inclined his head slightly to show that he was listening, eyes fixed on the road, hands at ten and two.

“They’re getting more vivid more…hungry.”

“Hungry?”

“Like they want something from me, like I’m just a – a carrier for this insanity. I feel like there are demons lurking behind my closed eyes, something that I don’t control, like it’s controlling me.” Will took a staggered breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hannibal relished the times like this. It was fine to see Will in his environment, to see him work, but this pure, gushing agony that spilled from him thrilled Hannibal’s senses; like Hannibal was already clutching the knife and Will was an open vein, soaking him in conscious thought and twisted dreams congealing into ripe opportunity.

“You are the agent of you own mentality, Will. You say you build these ‘forts’ to separate yourself from killers, from madmen. How strong are the forts now? Can you be sure that they are keeping everything out?” Will nodded, as though his head weighed a great deal. “Is it Garrett Jacob Hobbs you see?” Will’s eyes flicked swiftly to Hannibal’s face and back down to his lap.

“Yes,” he said. Lying didn’t become any easier without meeting those patient, understanding eyes. The pressure of expectation weighed upon him heavily, and although the doctor refrained from openly setting standards, Will felt as though he was the only one he needed to impress. Not only needed, perhaps, wanted to impress. Hannibal’s approval was something any acquaintance unconsciously sought after. There was a quality in the pleasant conversation, the softly spoken European accent and the hidden intensity in his gaze which encouraged one’s immediate betterment. His manner implied judgement without overtly expressing it.

“You cannot allow the ghosts of your past to obstruct your vision of the present or in any way hinder the progression of your future.” The remark was gently reprimanding, quietly optimistic, and calmly expressed as Will’s home came into view as the car crawled along the drive. Will looked out of the window at his approaching darkened windows and unkempt lawn. He thought about the feathered stag which pawed at the foundations of his dreams and invited him to dance with the devils in the dark places in his mind. Even in waking he was acutely aware of its light touch nosing the back of his hands and breathing wetly down his neck. Always one step behind but never forgotten, not banished, not yet. Imminent, Omniscient, the worst kind of cruel god.

The squat little building cowered in the light drizzle, the bowed porch hugging the structure as the damp seeped between the saturated wood and made its home in cracks and contours. A moist humidity clung to the air. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, but the muffled chorus of dogs inside brought a smile to Will’s face.

“It seems as though you have been missed,” Hannibal commented, his eyes fixed on the front windows where several furry heads bobbed expectantly as he parked the car. Will didn’t reply, merely opened the side door and stepped out onto the gravel. Hannibal watched as the other man mounted the worn steps, opening the door cautiously and bracing himself for the mob of excitable energy that greeted him. Will’s laughter was coarse and natural, not the strained mimicry of humour which he put on in company. Hannibal felt a sudden pang of jealousy at the ease with which Will interacted with the animals at his feet. He strode towards the house and stood some feet away from where Will was accepting the affection of his canine family, crouched among a thriving mass of panting bodies. One dog separated itself from the pack and trotted over to Hannibal, sniffing at his shoes and staring at him with its head cocked to one side.

“Winston, leave him alone,” Will called from within the circle of animals, ruffling the ears of a particularly large shaggy dog. Hannibal quirked his mouth at the sandy coloured mutt, bending down and allowing it to sniff his hand. Winston nudged his palm with his nose, apparently considering whether Hannibal was worth the bother of a full on welcome. He seemed undecided, for when Hannibal rose, the dog neither attempted to jump up, nor wandered away. Instead, Winston continued to stare at Hannibal, the tip of his tongue poking out from between pointed teeth and his tail flopping occasionally against the deck with a heavy thud.

“What a… charming name for a dog,” Hannibal said as Will fought his way to where the doctor and Winston were sizing each other up.

“He’s new,” Will supplied, fondling the dog’s ears.

“And a stray like the others?”

“Yes, I take them all in regardless of size or health.” It was peculiar to see Will so relaxed, without the stress of a clinical environment or the pressure of a crime scene, he seemed to feel perfectly contented with Hannibal and the dogs for company.

“They flock to you,” Hannibal added, without irony, watching as Will ran a hand through his messy hair, grinning easily.

“I don’t know what that says about me.”

“It says many things, that you are a caring person, that you have compassion as well as empathy. This is all good.” Will smiled at him, and Hannibal couldn't help but smile back in his odd, inhuman way.

 

“Would you like to come in?” Will asked when Hannibal was already halfway through the door, herded in by a pack of dogs at his heels.

“Thank you,” Hannibal replied, brushing dog hair from his trousers subtly.

“Tea?” Will called from the kitchen.

“If it is not too much trouble,” Hannibal said, surveying his surroundings with interest. Will came back in shortly carrying two mugs. He handed one to the doctor with the practiced concentration of a child avoiding a spill and sat down beside him on the sagging couch, their thighs touching slightly. Hannibal felt a small amount of pride blossom at the brief contact. It meant a little victory.

* * *

            Their conversation flowed easily. At home, Will was far better than in the company of members of the FBI and other strangers. How ironic, that a monster should be the one to pacify the demons which raged inside Will’s head. Hannibal sipped his tea and watched Will’s eyes light up as he talked about things besides work; his love of animals, of his home and fixing boat motors. Hannibal learned far more about him in that short hour than he had in all the weeks since they had been introduced. He noticed that Will was comfortable enough to sustain eye contact for more than five seconds, and that he no longer twitched or fidgeted as they spoke. It was progress, however slight. When they had been talking for far longer than intended, Hannibal expressed his wish to depart, saying that he had a patient to receive at three. Will nodded, seeing him to the door. Several of the dogs which had stayed curled around their feet got up and stretched languidly, exposing their teeth in a slow yawn. Hannibal twitched his lips at them, resisting the urge to snarl back. The possessive way in which they clustered around Will irritated him; their loyalty seemed too complete, too cloying. Will shuffled his feet at the door.

“Thank you for last night,” he said, and Hannibal nodded.

“It was no trouble.” Will looked up, looked him right in the eyes.

“I appreciate it.” Hannibal held his gaze. Will shifted, leaning a hand against the doorframe. His eyes flicked lightning-fast to Hannibal’s thin lips. Hannibal moved slightly, enough that he could feel Will’s breath whisper over his cheek. Will swallowed, listing towards him unconsciously, his hand flexing against his thigh as they moved closer.

“I must be going,” Hannibal said after a moment of consideration, reaching out and giving Will’s arm a companionable squeeze. “See you at our next appointment.” Will blinked, startled out of his reverie with the itch of annoyance prickling beneath his skin. Hannibal moved away quickly, ignoring the twinge of desire which tugged at him. Patience, patience and restraint.

* * *

           It took three long days for Will to stumble back to Hannibal’s office. Hannibal resisted the urge to corner him as Will let himself into the room. Today Hannibal picked up the scent of dog, a new aftershave, a little less abhorrent than the last, and a new brand of shampoo; coconut. It made his mouth water. Will smiled in that broken way of his and Hannibal sighed, lost in the boundless possibilities which were strung between them, delicate threads of potentiality which tugged and pulled with each miniscule movement of the subconscious. He felt torn between two worlds, two vastly different futures which stretched in opposite directions. Hannibal looked at Will and studied his scruffy attire, unshaven and unkempt, delectable and dangerous, and altogether irresistible. Two ways. As a lover Will might be inexperienced, Hannibal would have to teach him a few things. As a meal...well. The lean leg, the tender flesh of his inner thigh, the perfect untouched organs sealed within that pretty human skin...Hannibal would make him last.

“I can’t sleep.” Will said at last.

“I know,” Will swallowed, and Hannibal watched the movement of his Adam’s Apple with distant fascination. Will swept his eyes over the carpeted floor; his gaze carried with it all the destructive force of a tidal wave, rushing across the ornate furniture and crashing at Hannibal’s feet, lapping around his shoes.

“Come to dinner.” Hannibal said calmly, eyeing the way Will ran his hands through his hair and stopped his pacing for a moment to consider him.

“Thank you for the offer, but I don’t fit in with your lifestyle, Dr Lecter.” Will said with an apologetic smile.

“Not at all. It will be you and I, alone, nobody to impress.” Hannibal countered insistently.

“You say that but...”

“Please.” Hannibal said pointedly. Will raised an eyebrow.

“OK, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Hannibal was careful to keep his smile from becoming too feral, but it took an effort of will. “Dress comfortably. I don’t want to put unnecessary pressure on you.”

“I’ll have you know I scrub up rather well, Dr Lecter.” Will said with a dry chuckle.

“Very well, formal it is.”

* * *

          Hannibal spent the entire afternoon in his lavishly decorated kitchen with the sleeves of his expensive shirt rolled up to his elbows and the immaculate apron tied around his middle. He upheld the belief that the kitchen was the heart of any home, and that his own in particular was an example of extraordinary elegance and style. Will Graham sauntered into the room at around 8pm and settled himself on one of the stools at the counter to watch. Hannibal had a general rule about people being around when he cooked, but Will was so...quiet. Hannibal felt his presence like a whisper of smoke on the back of his neck, but it was not intrusive – more calming than unnerving.

“Did you have any interesting patients today?” Was the first thing Will asked, after hello.

“That depends how you define interesting,” Hannibal answered, draining a saucepan of vegetables in a cloud of steam.

“Out of the ordinary,”

“Everyone is different, it’s something I enjoy about my profession. I meet many different kinds of people.” Will nodded, hands clasped in his lap. His jacket was thrown over the back of one of the chairs in the hall. Hannibal liked that Will felt comfortable enough to simply walk into his house and make use of the furniture. He liked having Will around, he liked to see the imprints of his presence on every part of his home. Will truly did scrub up well. He was dressed in a white shirt and smart waistcoat. Granted, the outfit was a little worn; Hannibal could see a small hole in the back of the waistcoat that Will probably hadn’t noticed, but overall the effect was rather endearing.

* * *

          The meal went as planned. Conversation was comfortable, somehow managing to avoid the topic of work, until Will set down his knife and fork quietly and raised his head to look at Hannibal’s hand where it rested on the table instead of his face.

“Do you ever wonder how psychiatrists get married?”

“In what sense?”

“It’s just that, people like us, we seem to repel people. That’s no reflection upon you, it’s just...something I’ve noticed.”

“How so?”

“We get inside people’s heads. We see things about them that they don’t even know about themselves. You make a living out of dissecting the minds of others, but I’m...I don’t-”

“In my experience, sometimes a solitary life is a better one.” Will nodded, his face drawn together in a frown like blinds across a windowpane. Hannibal wanted to smooth the lines with his lips and erase the traces of Will’s confusion. “Sometimes,” he reiterated softly.

“I’ll be back shortly with dessert,” Hannibal said pleasantly, rising from his chair and collecting the plates. Will murmured in response, tracing the lip of his wine glass with the tip of his index finger. Hannibal left the room, placing the plates in the sink in his kitchen, plunging his hands into the soapy water to wash them a little before leaving them to soak. He was shaking the water from his hands when he stilled, suddenly acutely aware of Will’s presence in the room. Hannibal Lecter was a difficult man to creep up on.

“That aftershave really is rather distinctive, William.” He was saying as he turned.

A hand gripped his bicep as Will turned Hannibal to face him fully. Their fingers touched briefly on the other hand. It was a simple brush of skin, contact as delicate and fleeting as the beat of a butterfly’s wing, but it set their bodies on fire. Hannibal gathered Will to him in one movement. They kissed with spontaneity and ferocity - passionate and terrifying. Passion was _good;_ it throbbed impatiently in their veins. Hannibal’s wet hands soaked the collar of Will’s fine shirt, his blunt nails pressing on the nape of his neck, as though he could prise open the skin and access the thoughts swarming in Will’s troubled mind. Will, however, found his thoughts vacant and calm, insubstantial and untroubled, as they had been before everything; before Jack and the FBI, death and gore and the delirium of the criminally insane.

Will sucked a breath through his parted lips, choking a muffled sob against Hannibal’s mouth as they devoured one another. Hannibal gripped Will’s thighs with both hands, lifted him onto the counter, pressed his own body against the spread of Will’s legs, hands on Will’s lower back as Will arched his spine, knees pinching Hannibal’s sides. Will bit Hannibal’s lip, and the other man groaned very softly, urging him to bite again at the sensitive tissue, harder, deeper, shuddering at the spill of coppery blood tainting their mouths and the drag of torn flesh over eager teeth.

Will’s hand cradled the back of Hannibal’s skull, fingertips mapping the invisible sutures and fissures like the edges of a puzzle. They let themselves breathe, the trials of their breath like ghosts of unsaid words spilling from their mouths and licking tantalizingly at the other’s lips. Hannibal closed his eyes again, blood already drying on his split lip like a crude mockery of tinted balm. Will licked at it, tasting metal and mystery and death dancing on the tip of his tongue. Hannibal tilted his head, kissed the corner of Will’s mouth and slid his hand from Will’s hip to his sternum, his knuckle notching Will’s rib, pressing the soft intercostal spaces.

Will pulled him closer, heels digging into Hannibal’s buttocks as he steadied himself, his thumbs finding the sloping valley of narrow hips and muscle beneath the other’s shirt. Hannibal lifted his hand, his own thumb brushing Will’s bottom lip, tracing the impression of his kisses on the pink skin. He leaned in, catching Will’s lip between his teeth, biting softly. Will’s arms enclosed Hannibal possessively, drawing him in, further, consuming. Hannibal kissed him again with aching deliberation, his intention burning thorough him.

Will slid off of the counter-top and into Hannibal’s arms, watching him warily like a skittish colt, waiting for any reason to baulk. Hannibal smiled, gripped his wrist, and walked backwards; leading Will like a sacrifice to his bed.

 

They both sat heavily on the mattress, neither one on top of the other, but side by side, kissing with fond apprehension. Hannibal tilted his head, nipped at Will’s lips again, his fingers straying to Will’s collar, stroking the exposed skin obsessively, but with patience. Will shifted, hand resting tentatively on Hannibal’s knee. They undressed.

Hannibal wondered if Will had any tattoos. He despised the things, generally. They were a mark of impurity on beautifully fragile human skin. Although he was sure it had no taste, Hannibal imagined he could pick up the bitterness of the ink in the pink flesh. He lifted the bottom of Will’s grey t-shirt, grazed the pale jutting hip bone with his teeth. Will made a soft, keening sound, his fingers clawing at the bed sheet.

“Hush,” Hannibal murmured, stilling his fidgeting hands and pinning them to the bed with enough force to hurt a little, but not enough to frighten Will. Fear was exhilarating, Hannibal relished its intoxicating pheromones, but Will’s fear, his anxiety, was not something he wished to encourage yet. For now he was content to explore, to test and discover his new engaging plaything.

 “Dr Lecter,” Will murmured softly as Hannibal undid his belt. The doctor paused.

“Hannibal,” he said calmly, as though reprimanding a disobedient child. Will looked at him curiously, his gaze flicking back and forth between Hannibal’s dark eyes.

“Hannibal,” Will said. Hannibal smiled. It was a feral smile which showed a lot of teeth. Will had never seen the doctor smile genuinely before. It was haunting, as though he had opened a window into Hannibal’s very soul.

The doctor nosed his way down Will’s heaving chest, his flat stomach, lips dragging across the fine trail of hair above the waistband of his soft cotton boxers. He gave an unnaturally unsteady sigh, his slackened lips wetly mouthing the shape of Will’s dick through the material. Will closed his eyes; breathing in short, excited pants as Hannibal traced the length of him with his lower teeth. Will placed a hand on the back of Hannibal’s neck, sliding his palm across the doctor’s bare shoulder and absently massaging the muscle with his fingertips. He felt Hannibal press his nose into his crotch, and his heart lurched in his chest as the other man took a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, breathing him in. A few strands of hair had fallen across Hannibal’s face, and as he flicked his gaze upwards, Will caught the first, true flashes of madness in his concentrated, ophidian eyes. (Some part of him will always have known.)

* * *

            Hannibal bit the nape of Will’s neck as he fucked him with slow, steady strokes, nearly pulling out completely before he pushed back into Will’s body with a soft sigh. His teeth caught the sore and bitten skin stretched over Will’s protruding spine and he held fast, keeping him still beneath him. Will felt like an animal pinned beneath its dominant mate, he revelled in the erotically possessive display as Hannibal slid an arm around his waist to bring Will’s hips flush against his own with a gentle snarl. Will lifted his head to try and catch sight of Hannibal’s expression, but the other man buried his face in Will’s neck, breathing heavily. Overwhelmed, Will tried to push back, meet Hannibal thrust for thrust, but the doctor flattened himself against Will’s back, their legs slotted together. Hannibal leaned forward on one strong arm, supporting his weight on his forearm. Will reached out and ran his fingers over the straining muscle of Hannibal’s bicep, the deeply fascinating map of thick purple veins beneath his skin, finally closing his hand around Hannibal’s shoulder and digging blunt nails into the undulating flesh. The tip of his cock brushed the sheets, and Will gasped at the sensitivity.

Hannibal fitted his teeth over the small mole on Will’s shoulder, bit down, hard. Will knew that he enjoyed being bitten during sex - marked, as though the other person were claiming him for their own for that short amount of time. He had little to compare Hannibal’s technique to, but he felt like the other man understood him. The language their bodies spoke beneath the sheets was far more eloquent than Will could ever muster in the daylight. He felt taken apart by that questing mouth, grazed and torn and ripped and opened up with sharp, carnivorous teeth, soothed by that both rough and gentle tongue lapping inside his mouth or between his legs. Everything Hannibal did had purpose. He knew Will’s body well, enough to make Will wonder just how long he had been observing him, gauging his stamina, endurance, all those sexual nuances which came into play as they grappled with their pride and dominance in this intricate, intimate dance.

Will yelped as Hannibal bit a little too hard, drawing a thin trickle of blood which seeped sluggishly form the shallow puncture mark at his shoulder. Hannibal bent his head in apology, licking at the stinging wound. Pain was good, it was grounding, it was real. Hannibal could look into Will’s eyes and see nothing but pain in varying depths of shadow. It struck him that his eyes must look the same. Neither of their pain was their own, it was all borrowed. Will absorbed too much of his work, his mind chipped away at by the sickness of others, replaced piece by piece with parts of every killer he had ever known, every killer he had ever been. Hannibal fed on the pain of others, so to speak, he hungered for discord, while Will strove for harmony. Will shuddered, his hips snapping against Hannibal’s, nails clawing at his arm in vengeance. Hannibal hissed very softly between his teeth, and gave a whispered “ _Yes,_ ” at the sudden spike of sharp pain Will caused him. “Turn over,” Hannibal commanded, pulling out of him. Will made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat at the loss, but did as he was told.

 Hannibal didn’t like it when they struggled, it made for too much effort, too much mess; but there was a part of him which relished the dig of Will’s strong fingers in the meat of his shoulders, his eyes darkened dangerously as they traced the line of Hannibal’s thin, pale lips. So fragile, so breakable. Hannibal kissed at his collarbone, moulded his lips to the perfect dip in the hollow of Will’s throat. Will’s Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed. Hannibal kissed it. He mouthed the delicate skin where Will’s pulse throbbed in his neck, sucking lightly and calling the dark bruise of blood to the surface. He pushed back inside Will in one swift movement, shivering with pleasure at Will’s pained cry.

Hannibal guided Will’s hands to his arched back, forcing Will to dig in his nails and scratch him in his pleasure as they moved. Will began raking harsh red lines across Hannibal’s shoulders and sides with each thrust, pain singing deliciously along his body at the peak of each movement in and out. Will hooked his ankles around the back of Hannibal’s thighs, pushing him deeper and searching for purchase. Hannibal groaned almost imperceptibly, ignoring the constraints of Will’s discomfort and grounding himself by latching onto Will’s collarbone with his teeth. Will cried out, his breathing unsteady and rapid, chest heaving. He drew his knees together, pulling Hannibal down, fully on top of him. Will’s frantic, broken sobs were muffled by Hannibal’s shoulder, his hands slid downwards and Will dug his nails viciously into Hannibal’s buttocks, a drawn out, wavering moan swallowed by the doctor’s bruising kiss as he brought him to the edge. Hannibal followed him into the twitching, aching oblivion of orgasm, buried inside him, mouth open against his own in a silent scream.

 

He felt _alive._ He felt everything around him shift and change in the haze surrounding the following moments. He felt his cock soften inside Will’s body; he felt the semen seeping into the mattress as he pulled out of him with painful deliberation. Hannibal lifted himself up with shaking arms and extracted himself from Will’s choking embrace. His muscles fluttered with fatigue, consumed by that unfamiliar ache of completion as he collapsed beside Will on the bed. The metallic tang of blood coated his tongue, his opened lip bleeding sluggishly. He turned his head, remembered that it wasn’t just his blood he could taste. Will was sprawled exhaustedly on the tangled sheets, chest rising and falling steadily. His eyes were closed. Hannibal swept his gaze down his bruised and beaten corpse-like body. Rust coloured smears painted his skin in an almost tribal manner, mingling with the pool of sticky fluid collected in the dip of his stomach. Hannibal sat up, tried to wipe it with the sheet, but a sleepy hand batted it away. Will cracked an eye open, watching him for a moment before sheer lack of energy forced him to fall back against the pillows at the head of the bed. He didn’t run, or scream or cry. In fact, he looked perfectly serene. Hannibal felt irrationally exposed; he had lost control with Will. He had overstepped the boundaries he had sworn never to cross with a person that was not intended for his freezer.

He was lonely, his life made him lonely. Around Will, Hannibal could be something closer to his real self. The only other people that had seen him in this way had died moments later. He contemplated the contents of the room blearily; the ornate bedpost, a simple crack against the skull, the chair, the straight razor in the en suite, the knife beneath his pillow. Will’s hand twitched. He turned his body slightly towards Hannibal, one arm extended in offering. Hannibal studied the black and purple bruises blossoming at his throat, on his collarbone. He felt the bed sheet snag on his own raw skin and catch on the drying blood on his back. He had very little enthusiasm to clean either of them up or do anything about the mess of his expensive sheets, let alone deal with disposing of Will, so he pulled the corner of the sheet across his body, casting a final look towards Will’s blissful expression, and was asleep in moments.

* * *

            Through the opened curtains, morning sunlight stabbed into the room and pierced the thin veil of sleep which clothed the sleeping figures. Will woke first, startled into consciousness not by nightmares or hallucinations, but by the warmth of an arm pressed against his lower back. He sat up reflexively and crumpled a second later, a rush of blood pounding in his head and a sickening, bone deep ache settling into his groin and stiffening his joints with a stuttering grind. He gave a pitiful groan, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and clawing himself into a sitting position, pulse thudding hypnotically in his ears. He tried to ease his shoulder back, wincing as the newly formed scab pulled and fresh blood seeped out of the wound from twin puncture marks made by sharp canines. “Fuck,” he rasped hoarsely. The echo of a scream chased around the thoughts in his head. His throat remembered the guttural sounds with agonizing precision. Will stood up on wobbly, fawn-like legs and staggered across the room to the gilded mirror mounted on the wall above an ornate dresser. He looked down at the various colognes and scents in little glass bottles arranged with care beside a comb and small tub of hair gel. Will turned woodenly and looked at Hannibal lying on the bed, his limbs arranged artfully as though he were the muse of a grand master. The watery sunlight bathed him in washed out, pastel colours. His hair picked up the light in patches of dark blond, streaked with silver. Will picked up the comb and carefully replaced it again for fear of being caught. Hannibal did not move. The only indication that he was alive was the slow movement of his chest as he breathed silently though his parted lips. Will looked at his own reflection. He looked like shit.

 

Hannibal opened his eyes and tilted his head, seeing with perfect clarity the movement of muscle beneath Will’s skin as he stretched awkwardly. His shoulder blades shifted like wings unfurling in the daylight as he brought his arms up above his head, grunting softly. Blood slithered slowly down his back from the wounds Hannibal had inflicted upon him, the fading scratches on his hips and thighs radiating a striking red against his pale skin. Hannibal flicked his gaze towards the rumpled bed sheets, stained a sinful red with their mingled blood and stiff with dried come. Will had turned and was watching him with assertive eyes - his fragile little lamb bathed in gore and indecency, standing tall on shaking legs and smiling faintly through the residual pain. Hannibal let the sheet fall away from his body, Will’s gaze weighing on him minutely as he sat up. Hannibal gave a small hiss as the sheet stuck to the torn skin of his back was ripped away, streaked with lines of incriminating crimson. He stood slowly, stinging with the memory of blunt nails and fierce, starving passion. When he joined Will at the mirror, he did not look at the reflections of two lonely, damaged men, but instead trailed the tips of his fingers along the back of Will’s neck, tracing the livid marks his hungry mouth had made on delicate skin. Will looked _owned._ Hannibal smiled inwardly at the sentiment attached to the possessive markings. He turned Will toward him with a hand on his jaw, tilting his head a little to see the splotches of red colouring his neck, each with a suck mark in the middle. He jolted when he felt Will run a tentative hand down his spine, across the small of his back, stopping there. Perhaps he felt the same excitement at feeling the mark of his conquest on another’s skin. Perhaps it disgusted him. The brief glimpse Hannibal had into Will’s eyes before he looked away told him that what they had done most certainly did not repulse him, and the same dark, primal thrill ran along his spine and turned his nerves to ice and fire.

Hannibal walked away, picking up his shirt from the last night, finding his trousers and socks some way away from where he expected them to be. Will watched him, searching the floor for his own underwear. Hannibal opened a drawer, threw him a pair of boxers and retrieved his robe from the back of the door, tying it loosely around his middle. He didn’t watch Will as he pulled on the boxers, but he still felt the repressed shudder of lust at the thought of Will dressing in his clothing.

“Shall we?” He said, opening the door to his bedroom. Will crossed the room, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Hannibal smiled at him indulgently and stopped him in the doorway with a gentle guiding hand on his shoulder. Will gave him a curious sidelong glance as Hannibal lowered his head and pressed his lips against Will’s bare shoulder. Will closed his eyes. Something in Hannibal’s touch soothed his raging disposition and quelled the anger and sadness roiling beneath his skin. His mind whispered _danger_ but his heart screamed _love me love me._

He followed Hannibal into the kitchen, pulled by an inexpressible need to be close to him and to feel the heat of his body. Hannibal’s smile was open, more natural that Will had seen before from him as he opened a cupboard and took out a first aid kit.

“I want you against the counter.” Hannibal said, his eyes level with Will’s as he took out some ointment and various medical dressings. Will obeyed immediately, his body still willing, still possessed by the same desire which had overcome him before. He supposed he belonged to Hannibal now.

           

Hannibal looked over at Will, positioned with his hands on the counter and his legs spread slightly. What a delightful little submissive he was. Hannibal felt almost inclined to tell him so. Instead he squeezed a little of the ointment onto his fingertips and approached the man leaning against his countertop. He was still conflicted about whether Will would look better on the countertop beneath the keen bite of a sharp blade, or presented sumptuously on his bed sheets with his skin caught between Hannibal’s teeth. For now, Hannibal stood closely behind a lightly trembling Will and touched his fingers to the other’s skin. There was a sick pleasure in the knowledge that Will was marked by him, his desire to claim was insatiable; deeper than flesh now but evidenced on the surface. Born in blood and washed with the agony of madness. They owned one another completely.

Hannibal ran his fingers over the wound on Will’s shoulder, still wet with un-dried blood. The skin of his neck was raw and Will hissed at the sting when Hannibal touched him. He carefully rubbed the antiseptic around the torn skin, massaging in a circular motion. Will tipped his head forward, eyes closed. Hannibal fetched a little Vaseline and smeared it gently onto the sore spots on Will’s torso where he had bitten. He _had_ been good - he hadn’t chewed.

The doctor dressed the wounds carefully with a square of gauze and tape, smoothing a hand across Will’s tense shoulders when he had finished. Hannibal’s crotch was pressed almost imperceptibly against the swell of Will’s arse, and Will pushed back slightly, arching his spine like a cat. Hannibal fought the urge to throw him against the counter and push him all the way to the precipice of that dangerous oblivion. He turned his back and padded to the sink, wetting a flannel beneath the spray of warm water and pressing it into Will’s hand trustingly. Will looked at him. Sadness flickered in the light of his eyes; a deep internal fire which no amount of grooming at the hands of his tormentor could abate. He had forgotten what it felt like to be trusted. Hannibal let the robe fall to the floor and turned his torn up back to Will, standing in the kitchen as Will’s equal, clad only in boxers, vulnerable and strong all at once.

Will laid one hand on Hannibal’s ribs, fingers fanned over the shifting bone. He planted his feet either side of Hannibal’s body and carefully lifted the cloth, gently washing the scrapes on Hannibal’s back. His nails were jagged in places, chipped from every day labour and scrabbling alone in the dark. They had left messy, seething marks across the planes of Hannibal’s smooth back. Will felt Hannibal shudder beneath his touch, his sweeping, cleansing motion was interrupted by Hannibal tipping his head forward and letting out a low hiss between his teeth. Fresh blood wept from the little injuries Will had inflicted. Each one stung with possession and conquest. His own body ached with the thrill of it. A hibernating fear gnawed relentlessly at his insides, and he felt the sudden burn of Hannibal’s teeth in his shoulder, like a bear trap latched onto his body. He imagined that the links of heavy chain attached to the trap were wrapped around Hannibal’s wrist. Will felt it as he moved; the longer he spent tending the man with glittering eyes and the feral smile, the deeper the iron teeth sank into his flesh.

Hannibal passed Will the antiseptic and Will dutifully smeared it onto the cuts, his free hand moving slowly from Hannibal’s side across to the soft dip of his belly, the hair curling on his chest, soothing as Hannibal endured the sting of the almost ritualistic washing of wounds. Will moved around to his front, fingers still probing, stroking needlessly at Hannibal’s shoulders, pretending innocence. Hannibal stilled his fidgeting hands, nudged his face close to Will’s, noses knocking lightly, and kissed him - with feeling. It was an infectious pleasure, to kiss, to taste. Will handed himself to Hannibal’s experience, let it envelop him. He played at being easy, because for now, it was all that he needed to become. No one needed him to be anyone else, to jump into someone else’s mind. Hannibal seemed intrigued by Will’s empathy, but the root of his lust ran through Will’s core, to all that he was inside.

* * *

            Hannibal made them breakfast. They sat either side of the kitchen island eating off of delicate china plates and bowls. They drank sweet, perfumed tea and ate a fancy variation of fruit salad Hannibal gave a pretentious French name to, and cooked light, fluffy pancakes and drenched them in syrup. Removed from his tailored suits and silk ties, the expensive shoes, exotic cologne and neatly combed hair, Hannibal appeared suddenly more human. Will watched him pad around his kitchen, utterly informal and relaxed. It felt strange to see him this way, in the daylight. The night before, Will had felt as though he had been privy to some fantastic, nocturnal phenomenon, a different creature which emerged from the breast of calm, collected Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal watched as Will lifted a spoon to his mouth, swallowing the chunk of pineapple and licking juice from the back of the spoon. It was a pleasure to watch Will eat something he had prepared. Although he refrained from including a human supplement to their breakfast, the small ticks and mannerisms Will possessed while eating any food continued to fascinate him. Hannibal had assumed that once his sexual hunger for Will had been satisfied, he could focus on the pursuit of an altogether different hunger which gnawed at his insides. There had been too many times where Hannibal had fantasised about flaying the skin from Will’s thighs and buttocks in elegant strips of crackling, to carve the tender meat of his loins, break open his ribcage and bury his face in Will’s chest and tear bloody muscle and sinew to ribbons with his teeth until he tasted his heart. But then, that particular course involved killing Will. He could do it quickly, of course, and with as little pain as possible; but what he loved more than the thought of Will as a carcass, what he anticipated more than his cries of pain were his cries of ecstasy, and the pleasure of having been the one to elicit them from the fragile man before him. He loved to taste him in an altogether different sense, to hear those wicked profanities spill from Will’s slackened lips, to keep him teetering on the edge of release but never quite pushing him over.

Hannibal’s foot slid slowly up Will’s calf.

Hannibal plucked a grape from the stalk and sucked it into his mouth, savouring the pop of the skin between his sharp teeth and the flood of juices on his tongue. Will’s lips fluttered in an awkward smile, his cheeks painted with a flattering crimson. Hannibal stood, walking past Will to the larder. As he passed, Hannibal teasingly touched Will’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, as though he were removing a lick of food from his mouth. Will unconsciously followed the movement.

Once inside the larder, Hannibal ran his fingertips along the handles of the extra knives in the wooden block beside the door. The blades were kept sharp, should he ever need them. When he returned with a packet of dried dates, the kitchen was empty. Hannibal smiled softly to himself. Will had been so present in the past few days that Hannibal felt the loss of him then quite suddenly. It was as though Will had imprinted himself onto Hannibal and his home. The ghost of him still lingered in the room.

* * *

           Six thirty- a dreary, drab afternoon. Hannibal sat at his desk listening to Bach, his head drooping with the swells and dips in the music. In his hand he held a graphite pencil, sketching leisurely in a moleskin pad. With these tools he gave life to the simple portrait of a young, unbearably naive and altogether beautiful man. These days he found it harder to prevent Will from invading his thoughts. He no longer tried to keep him out.

Will knocked soundly on the door to Hannibal’s office. His clothes were damp with the thin mist which drifted in on the restless Baltimore air. The weather was more suited to Wolftrap than Maryland, and Will found the clammy precipitation affected his ability to distinguish between the two states any longer. One was home, the other was…Hannibal. Will fought the association he made between Hannibal and comfort, and yet it pawed at him persistently as he entered the office.

“I consider it rather rude of you to have left my home in that manner, Will.” Hannibal remarked with quiet vehemence as Will perched himself on the edge of Hannibal’s desk.

“I apologise, I just, I suddenly remembered my dogs - nobody had fed them…” Will’s lie was as transparent as glass, and yet Hannibal chose to let it pass unnoticed. Will surveyed the desk littered with pencils and the small pile of sharpenings, and the sketch book which had been snapped shut as he entered.

“May I?” He asked, gesturing to the book. Hannibal considered, one hand resting lightly on Will’s knee where he was leaned so close to him. He squeezed gently and offered a crooked smile.

“Perhaps another time,”

Will nodded, moving a hand distractedly across his face and touching Hannibal’s shoulder as he passed by. He climbed the ladder on the far side of Hannibal’s office quickly, stepping up and wandering along the shelves. He plucked a book from the shelf at random and flicked through a couple of the pages. The foreign words blurred together before him. Gentle fingertips pressed between his shoulder blades – he had not heard Hannibal behind him. Discomfort prickled at the base of his spine.

“Jack has been working you too hard.” Hannibal observed, his breath warm on the back of Will’s neck. His fingertips trailed slowly down Will’s spine.

“It’s fine. I can handle it.” Will murmured.

“Hmm,” Hannibal hummed in reply.

“You know you don’t have to protect me. That’s not your job, now that we’ve…I don’t need protecting.” Will stammered, put off by the impossible heat of Hannibal’s touch where his skin was usually cool.

“I don’t doubt that.” Hannibal replied in his soft, patient voice. His hand spread out across the base of Will’s spine. Will turned quickly, his heart hammering. He caught a flash of Hannibal’s curious expression in a blur as his knees gave out. He thought, in the moment before his vision clouded, that he knew true wickedness, and had lain side by side with the devil himself.

Hannibal caught him as he fell.

 

Will awoke from a sick, delusional sleep, his throat raw from screaming and his fingers gripping the mattress. As he gasped helplessly into the darkness, he knew with absolute certainty which word had ripped its jagged way from the pit of his lungs out through his throat. The name was curled on the back of his tongue, insistent and inescapable. He sat up in a rush of panic, blood drumming deafeningly in his ears.

“My name is Will Graham, it is nine thirty pm, I am in Wolftrap, Virginia. I am alone.” He whispered to himself. He repeated this until he felt he could breathe again. Will clawed his t-shirt off like peeling away a second skin, tearing at the residue of nightmares and scrunching it up in his hands, throwing it into the dark corner of his room and cradling his head in his arms.

They did not see one another for a good few days. Will spent his nights shivering upon sweat-soaked sheets, consumed by the memory of hands on his skin and teeth biting, nails clawing, fevered kissing. He began to feel hollow, as though something was allowing him to empty out, the bottom dropping from his stomach. His lectures became distracted, even for him. He was restless, not only at nights. His skin held an almost permanent itch of discontent. The stag still followed him in sleep and waking - its wet, prying nose pressing against his nape.

 

On Saturday evening Hannibal welcomed him in silk pyjamas and caught Will as he staggered through the door. Will gripped Hannibal’s arm, straining for him uselessly.

“Will, what is the matter?” Will almost laughed at the perfect articulation of Hannibal’s speech. The lack of contractions was still bizarre to him. Will raised his head and met Hannibal’s gaze.

“I missed you.” A small smirk played on the corners of Hannibal’s lips, but was banished before Will could register its meaning. Hannibal pulled Will into his arms wordlessly. His kisses were an ultimatum.

 

He kept coming back. Each time he wondered how long his resolve would last before he crawled his way back to Hannibal’s arms like a dog. His body continued to buckle and bleed, and he carried the wounds like battle scars. Newly formed scabs were broken instantly, split lips refused to heal. Bruises yellowed with age as another blossomed in their place.

Most nights he ran, if Hannibal gave him the chance. Sometimes Will simply curled up under the covers and cradled the fragile opportunity to his chest like it was love. Hannibal wrapped himself around Will’s trembling body, constricting. They never really spoke. The words were venomous to frightened ears.

Will let Hannibal soothe him.

 

When Hannibal was attacked by Tobias Budge, Will felt it strike in his heart like nothing else.Will perched on the desk as he had done countless times before; his hand rested on the edge. Hannibal reached out and surreptitiously covered Will’s little finger with his own. The small contact warmed them.

Will insisted on driving him home. They sat in silence so heavy that it seemed as though Will could hear the blood leaking from Hannibal’s wounds and drying stiffly on his skin. He snuck glances every so often, but Hannibal was quiet, reserved. When they made it to his home, Hannibal insisted on inviting him in, and Will insisted on staying the night. They made love with the lights off, curled beneath the sheets. Will licked the blood from Hannibal’s shallow cuts and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. Hannibal tucked Will’s body against his possessively and came with a gentle gasp which rattled in his lungs and slipped past Will’s ear through barely parted lips. In a dream, it might have sounded like his name.

 

Somehow Will had never been able to imagine Hannibal in a normal relationship. He tried to think of Hannibal sitting side by side with another man or woman, his eyes soft, gazing at the other person fondly, leaning in to kiss them with unusual tenderness. There was nothing tender about the way Hannibal loved Will. He loved him hungrily, without remorse. Being with Hannibal was like taking a beating from a bare-knuckle boxer. Each touch was another staggering blow that threatened to knock him down– a shot to the ribs, pushing the air from his lungs, striking his body with such unerring accuracy. Every kiss sent him reeling.

* * *

             They would have liked to think that nobody saw them, that they were invisible to the outside world in these private moments and emotions they held so closely to their chests. Jack Crawford was a hard man to hide from. His curiosity shone like a torch into the small, dark pocket of denial they had constructed. Each day Will came to work covered in more bruises, bites, scratches. ‘Dogs’ worked as an excuse only for a few weeks. It was a comfortable assumption, to think that Jack didn’t care. Although he did not wish to pry into Will’s private life, he knew with absolute certainty that there was something different about the way Will held himself. He _was_ changed. Hannibal appeared the same on the surface, he had always been so good at hiding everything inside. With so much darkness within, Hannibal could never let it overcome him. His change was internal, slow and creeping, a cancer spreading to every vital part of him. Will was causing this change, and he did not yet know how.

They were caught, at times, with their hands touching lightly, faces close together. Each movement was calculated for Hannibal, every time they ‘slipped up’ Hannibal was positioning them like chess pieces on a board. He longed for the day that he would take the king.

Will would die, and it would be by Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal knew this without question. The only question was how long they could go on before Hannibal had to kill him. Their relationship, Will’s dependency, Hannibal’s ridiculous infatuation, had no future. Like many things, they belonged only in the present; their existence was transitory. It could only end. Together their uncertainties, their flaws, made up a path to their destruction. When Will returned to Hannibal, he was giving in. When Hannibal cried Will’s name into the darkness, he was giving in. This was painful and demoralizing and messy. This could never be love. And yet…

There were the times, in the chill of the early mornings, when Will had collapsed beside Hannibal, (boneless and sleepy and drifting out of consciousness, but always touching, always seeking Hannibal’s warmth in the vast expanse of empty covers), when they each felt a little less alone. Together, they were almost human.


	2. Chapter 2

**“There’s no such thing as winning or losing. There is won and there is lost, there is victory and defeat. There are absolutes. Everything in between is still left to fight for.”**

_– Derek Landy_

 

            Hannibal’s cologne was sophisticated and somehow earthy and familiar, with notes of cedar and pine and a hint of citrus. Will turned his head into his collar, inhaled deeply the scent seeping from his own pores which was so inextricably linked with Hannibal. He could bathe six times every day and never be rid of it. It was ruminating in his hair follicles, soaking in the warm hollow of his throat and sluicing through his bright red bloodstream. He was tainted, in the most perfect way.

            While he would never freely admit it, Will had long since given up trying to escape their infatuation with one another. He visited Hannibal once, sometimes twice a week for what Hannibal called ‘alternative therapy’, and they would spend hours wrapped up in each other. If sex with Hannibal was a guilty pleasure, it was one Will was happy to succumb to.

* * *

It was a Tuesday.

Will stared reverently into Hannibal’s dark eyes, fingers dragging through the thick hair on Hannibal’s broad chest, hips rising and falling in tempo with the thud of his heart. He was not scared of anything beyond the creak of the bed’s ornate frame, the harsh sandpaper rasp of their breath or the darkness in the corners of the room. They were cocooned in a golden pool of light from Hannibal’s bedside lamp, enthralled by one another. Hannibal liked to see the ecstasy on Will’s face and watch the soft light glancing off the rip-curl of defined muscle on Will’s chest, and study the quiver of his thighs and every pleading, animal sound he made. Will was focused on riding Hannibal, taking him deeper and chasing away the horror of his working day. He leaned forward, eyes closed, breath hitching as he spread his legs further apart and let Hannibal sink into the aching heat of his body. Hannibal tilted his chin up expectantly, murmuring something breathily in a foreign language against Will’s jaw and grazing his teeth along his jugular.

“ _O mylimasis_ ,” Hannibal moaned, fingers carding through Will’s tight curls. _“Mano grožis,_ _mano didysis meilė.”_

“I love-” Will gasped,

_“Jei galėčiau mylėti,”_ Hannibal murmured, nuzzling the shell of Will’s ear, pushing his hips upwards.

“Hannibal,” Will choked out, mouth slack, eyes squeezed shut as he shuddered and twitched and searched for Hannibal’s soft mouth and biting teeth in the fever-haze.

Behind them, standing, waiting outside their protected halo of light, the beast with skin like pitch, a broad chest and human features stood silent in its death-dark world; its eyes a sickly pit devoid of light as it watched Will come undone, and marvelled at the nightmare realm that lived inside his head.

The devastating thing was, Will was not aware of the reason this beast still lingered in his head. He was happier, more at peace with himself when he was with Hannibal. He could not understand why it would not leave him when he was so content. He did not realise that the creature was not linked to him, only to the man he spent his nights dreaming of, and his waking hours pursuing.

Many things had changed in the course of a few months. He could not be alone without thinking of Hannibal. He could not work on the old boat motors with the slick oil on his hands without the memory of slick fingers and flushed skin on an overcast afternoon. He could not walk his dogs without wishing Hannibal were there with him to take the leads from his hands and guide him when they wandered off the path. Hannibal became his sole guide; the stars by which his course was charted, the image on the back of his eyelids as he begged for sleep. He was inescapable and terrifying, and he provoked such dependency in Will that it frightened him.

* * *

       Hunger had a colour. It was not the blood red of a fresh kill, or the black velvet of a night working under a pale, waning moon. It was the grey of fog creeping around the edges of his vision. It was the dark, looming cloud that gathered around him like a cloak. Inside that cloud he could do anything, be anyone.

       Killing was easy, preparation was difficult. Hannibal kept his back flat against the side of the van, hair falling in his eyes, the cool handle of the knife warming in his hand. He liked to work as simply as possible, wherever possible. The knife had a smooth handle and he sharpened it regularly; kept it in the block in his kitchen where everyone could see it. Normally he had a rule: don’t kill with what you use to cook, but this knife was so perfect for the occasion. He couldn’t quite remember what this man had done to perturb him, but he had been in his rolodex with all the other ‘undesirables’ and he had needed to replenish his supplies quickly, so he thought nothing of it when he set out to the address on the business card, that familiar hunger already awakened.

       Hannibal heard footsteps approaching and took a moment to compose himself before he whirled around, the knife raking a deep gouge in the side of the van as his victim ducked in surprise when they rounded the corner. Unfazed, Hannibal flipped the knife in his hand and kicked the cowering figure to the ground, his foot landing on the victim’s chest and knocking him back. The man gasped, and Hannibal’s foot lifted a fraction in surprise before stamping back down on the man’s ribcage. The man groaned, a hand reaching blindly for Hannibal’s leg, fingers curling around his ankle as he struggled to breathe.

       Hannibal removed his foot but quickly fell upon the man, trapping his legs beneath his weight and restraining the flailing arms as best he could. Hannibal reached out and grabbed a fistful of curls, but it was Will Graham’s head he wrenched back as he pressed the knife against the soft skin of his throat.

“Dear, dear Will.” Hannibal murmured, drawing a thin line of blood for good measure. Will hissed and his eyes searched Hannibal’s face pleadingly.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” Hannibal continued, “Sneaking up on a man like me,”

“You’re not a man,” Will spat, although his face was turning red. Hannibal eased the pressure off of his chest a little and Will coughed.

“No,” conceded Hannibal softly, tracing the line of Will’s jaw with the tip of the knife.

Will looked at him, fear giving way to defiance in the way that Hannibal loved best. His expression hardened.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asked mockingly, lifting his head from the ground. Hannibal tilted his head to one side, and let Will sit up. He could easily overpower him if he needed to. Will knew this as well, because he scooted back a little but didn’t bother trying to get up. Hannibal was still straddling his hips, making lazy circles in the air with the knife in his hand.

“I don’t know,” Hannibal replied to Will’s question. “I haven’t decided.”

Will went to make a sound, to form a string of words, but the first caught in his throat before it could make it to his lips. It was only now that Will noticed the smell of blood; it followed Hannibal everywhere. There had always been blood on his hands, and in his mouth and on his skin. Hannibal violated everything he touched with that aroma of death and decay. It permeated the air around him like a warning.

“So,” he said, composing himself marginally and ignoring the blurring of his vision and the dark figure looming behind Hannibal and merging with his silhouette against the artificial light from the house behind them. “Dr Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper.” Will said calculatingly. “Hannibal the Cannibal.”  

Hannibal cocked his head, and a look of brief confusion passed across his features before he schooled them into a mask of blank disinterest.

“Ripper; such a vulgar name,” Hannibal replied, standing suddenly. Will looked up at him from the ground; Hannibal loomed.

“Well, you’re a vulgar man.” Will said slowly, flinching involuntarily as Hannibal extended a hand.

“Oh, so I _am_ a man, now?”

Will shook his head, “I don’t know what you are,” he said. Will carefully placed his hand inside Hannibal’s; it felt very much like resting his neck on a chopping block, and stood shakily.

“I am a man, as you are. Perhaps this is what scares you. Maybe you are frightened by the knowledge of what one human can do.” Hannibal said steadily, his hand still clasped loosely in Will’s.

Will studied him, taking in the piercing eyes beneath a severe brow, the strong jaw line, thin lips and straight, dominating nose. Desire is a strange thing; the strangest thing being that Will still felt himself drawn to Hannibal Lecter. He was caught in his orbit, powerless and thrilled by it.

 “I’m going to let you up now, Will. You’re not going to run, are you? You’re not going to fight.” Hannibal said in a measured tone, as though placating a wild animal. He released Will and stood up, the knife held loosely in his hand. Will was more predictable than he thought, and he wouldn’t try to run, or attack. Will got to his feet unsteadily, his hands clenched into fists and his body stiff with barely concealed hatred. Whether that hatred was for himself or for Hannibal, the doctor could not tell. Will ground his teeth, glaring at him for a moment, and then he smiled, slow and menacing.

“What happens now?” He said, though, it was less of a question than it seemed. It was as though he had known for a long time; dear, sweet Will. It was as though he was waiting for Hannibal to make his move in this game of theirs, as though the world hinged on the movement of their pieces on the board. Hannibal watched the trickle of bright blood disappear beneath Will’s shirt collar. He put the knife away and retrieved his car keys from inside his jacket.

“Now, I will take you home.” Hannibal said, and Will felt he had no choice but to follow.

* * *

         The car was clean and smelled of pine, and Will wondered how many bodies Hannibal had transported to his kitchen in this car. He felt the acidic bile rising in his throat like a tide and swallowed it down hastily, eyes fixed on the blur of trees and gravel outside the passenger window. Hannibal glanced at Will as he leant his head on back on the headrest woozily, but made no move to open the window or pull over.

Will felt his gaze on him and turned his head, fixing Hannibal with an unwavering stare, his mouth a thin, angry line and his eyes hard and unfeeling.

“I don’t frighten you.” Hannibal remarked. Will smirked.

“I am afraid,” he answered emotionlessly.

“Of me?”

Will shrugged a shoulder, turning his gaze to the dirt road that stretched before them beyond the reach of the headlights. He wondered if there were any deer where they were. He didn’t know where he had tracked Hannibal to; the address meant nothing. Nausea swept over him again and Will thumbed the button for the window, extending a hand out into the cool night air and breathing deeply, trying not to take in the smell of panic and desperation that surrounded him.

Hannibal studied him for a long moment before his eyes moved back to the dark, narrow road ahead. They sat through a long silence until Will spoke again.

“You killed all those people. You…consumed them, you destroyed them. In many ways you have done the same to me, Dr Lecter. That is not something I can easily forgive.”

“If I wanted forgiveness, Will, I would have confessed to my crimes a long time ago.” Hannibal said evenly, making a left turn off the dirt and heading onto the main road. Although there were no cars around, Will felt marginally better for the change in scenery.

“Why are you taking me home?” Will asked after a moment. His fingers were beginning to go numb. He kept them out in the cold night air where everything felt more real. Hannibal took a turn Will recognised and he sat up.

“Why?” He asked again, casting frightened and wary eyes over to Hannibal’s rigid figure in the driver’s seat.

Hannibal smirked. “I’m not kidnapping you. You said yourself you don’t know what you’re afraid of.” Will’s hand found the door handle and he opened it cautiously as they pulled up to his drive. Hannibal reached across suddenly and pulled the door shut.

“I would advise you very strongly,” he murmured, “to be afraid of me.”

Will swallowed thickly, Hannibal’s grip releasing him and the door. Will stumbled out of the car and stood, shivering and terrified, on the gravel drive as Hannibal’s car lumbered back down the dark road. Will went inside, fed the dogs, and put himself to bed.

* * *

         That night Will dreamt that the stag man watched him from the corner of his room. He felt that he was awake; Winston’s head was warm and heavy in his lap, and Katy was drooling on his arm. The Doberman Will had named Big Ben was stretched across his legs like a furry and somewhat restricting tonne of bricks. Will watched as the stag man turned its head slowly and stared into the eyes of the nearest dog; a terrier called Maxwell. Will jerked awake to the sound of frenzied barking, sweat glistening on his skin and heat radiating from the dogs piled on top of his various body parts like a slobbery blanket. He calmed the dogs and fell back into bed with his heart thudding frantically.

 Will lay awake until morning, turning over everything in his head – some kind of rotisserie of horrific images he couldn't shut off. When it was light he showered and dressed, drove into town and brought the most expensive (though possibly not best) bottle of wine he could find. Around noon, Will called Hannibal Lecter’s office and had his assistant take a message.

When he looked at his pitiful collection of cologne, face stinging from a shave, Will realised that he actually didn’t have anything but the ones with a cheerful nautical ship on the bottle. He begrudgingly took out the most inoffensive-looking one and applied a little, studying his own reflection in the mirror, and the thin red line that crossed his throat like a guideline for a cut that would be much more permanent.

Will nodded to his reflection, scraped back his hair into something presentable and put on his best suit. He wrapped the bottle of wine in some brown paper, locked up the house and got into his car. His car smelled of leather and pine air freshener; nothing untoward. It seemed lacking in something…something metallic. Will decided not to analyse how he felt about that and pulled out of his drive with the bottle of wine in the passenger seat.

Will only had to knock once before Hannibal Lecter opened the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is speaking Lithuanian, his lines (written through google translate, I'm afraid) are as follows:  
> O mylimasis = oh beloved  
> Mano grožis, mano didysis meilė = my beauty, my great love  
> Jei galėčiau mylėti = if I could love 
> 
> Thank you for reading! There is one final part to this story being posted relatively soon I hope. Any comments would be lovely!


	3. Chapter 3

**"You hunt only to reassure yourself that you are not what you are."**

_\- William Goldman_

 

         Hannibal licked a drop of wine from his lips and studied Will and his untouched meal with quiet interest. “I must confess I find it odd that you delivered yourself to my table, Will.” He said blandly, swirling his wine in the glass. It was not something he would usually drink; but then, he was acquiring a taste for a number of unusual things of late.

Will’s smirk was a pained twist of his lips. “When a sea bird knows it’s going to die, it flies out far across the sea, so far that it can no longer see the land. It lets its wings carry it for as long as they can, then it drops from the air and is swallowed by the sea.” Hannibal tilted his head, puzzled by the analogy.

“It’s also unusual to find the remains of a dead bird. Predators always find it first, you see.” Will continued. He had not looked up from his full plate; now he did.

“I’m your prey. I’ve come to die.”

Hannibal raised his fork to his mouth and pulled the strip of meat off with his teeth. Will’s tongue chased the movement of Hannibal’s tongue on his own lips.

“And yet you won’t take a single bite of your last supper.” Hannibal commented.

“You and I have different tastes.”  Will replied. Hannibal made an agreeable sound in reply, and chewed his meat slowly while keeping his eyes fixed on Will’s.

Too long they had danced around each other; too long Will had been prevented from seeing Hannibal as he really was. Well, now he could see the monster’s face. Now he could see the devil in his staring eyes. Now he saw Hannibal as the caged beast that he had concealed for years upon years behind a mask of gentility and refinement.

"I wonder that you have so few questions for me." Hannibal said. Will's mouth twitched grimacingly.

"I don't want to know any more than I already do." Will answered.

Hannibal considered him for a moment. He raised his glass, and did not hide his smile. “To the end,” he said.

Will raised his glass. “The end.”

Hannibal was still for a moment, then set down his drink and stood up abruptly. He was on Will in two strides, dragging him to his feet.

This kiss was different to the ones they usually shared. Will wasn't aware of how much Hannibal had been holding back. Hannibal’s tongue was everywhere, tracing his lips, his blunt teeth. Will groaned quite unexpectedly and felt rather than heard Hannibal’s answering moan inside his mouth. Will bit Hannibal’s lip and kissed him with more hunger and need than he had ever felt. He no longer hated himself.

Hannibal backed Will into the table, bent him over it. Will stumbled a little but did not fall. Hannibal's hand groped behind him on the table. Will felt him press something cold and smooth into his palm.

Will looked down at the carving knife in his hand, then back up at Hannibal.

 “We are very much alike, Will. Do you imagine sometimes just how good it would feel to give into that desire?” As he spoke, Hannibal was curling Will's fingers around the handle of the knife. He fumbled at the buttons of his own shirt, baring his chest and fixing Will with a challenging stare. "Let us see the real Will Graham."

Will pressed the blade of the knife into Hannibal’s side and Hannibal sucked in a gasp as Will cut a thin line along his hip. Will fell to his knees and pulled Hannibal’s shirt from his trousers. He had ruined the shirt, and the wet blood glistened through the gash in the fabric. He pressed his mouth to it, letting Hannibal’s blood stain his lips and chin, his tongue flicking out to taste. Hannibal gave a guttural moan and his hand fumbled with the button on his trousers, loosening them so that they slipped past his hips. Will gripped Hannibal by the back of a strong thigh and dug in his nails, smearing red across Hannibal’s white skin. He lifted the knife and at the same time lifted his eyes as he pressed it to the inside of Hannibal’s thigh. Hannibal’s breathing was laboured; he was watching Will and doing nothing. Will flicked his wrist and made another shallow cut. Blood dripped sluggishly as Will covered the wound with his mouth and Hannibal shuddered, hand on the back of Will’s neck.

“There you are.” Hannibal murmured. Will tore his boxers out of the way and took Hannibal in his mouth. Hannibal gripped Will's neck tighter, closed his eyes. Will's nails scraped his thighs, the knife cold, lethal, pressed into his skin. Hannibal grinned widely, maniacally. He was still grinning when Will pulled off with a wet noise, got slowly to his feet. It was only when he felt the sting of the knife pressing into his stomach that Hannibal opened his eyes.

"Here I am." Will said, and thrust the knife into Hannibal's stomach, wrenching it upwards and spilling his wet, glistening entrails over the ornate carpet, blood gushing over his hand and soaking his chest. Hannibal made a gagging, animal sound as Will gutted him, only stopping when he hit bone. Hannibal slumped and Will dropped him to the floor with a dull, heavy thud, his forearms slick with warm blood.

Hannibal's body convulsed, his eyes rolling in his head, fixing at last on Will. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, blood spilled past his lips.

Will watched him, shaking, the carpet squelched underfoot as he knelt beside Hannibal. The creature lifted its head, torn open from groin to sternum. Its antlers flickered in and out of focus as Will opened his hand and let the knife tumble from his grip.

Will knelt silently by Hannibal's body for what felt like an hour. When the blood started to dry and crust his skin, he reached into the pocket of his trousers with steady fingers and pulled out his phone.

"Jack," He said. "Hannibal attacked me, he had a knife, I didn't know what to do."

Jack Crawford's voice was far away and broken by static. Will wiped his bloody palm on his trouser leg and stood slowly.

"He's dead."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

Will looked down at Hannibal's body. He was just a man, although, looking at him now, you could hardly tell if any part of him was human.

_You gutted him._

Will backed himself against the wall. He didn't smile, but something twitched eagerly in his chest, like a creature awakening from its slumber. Soon the lights from the police cars through the window lit up the face of the corpse with flares of blue and white and red.

Will let himself be wrapped in a shock blanket and bundled into an ambulance. He didn't say a word to Jack or to the paramedics. He had to keep this hidden, keep it safe, for now.

There was method in this madness, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! Please leave a comment if you have the time! :)


End file.
